ng the forged letter to Widow Thrale, had followed on to one and
two, unnoticed. And now, when it struck three, she doubted it, and
looked at her watch. "Yes," said she, bewildered. "It's right! It's
actually three o'clock. I must go. I wish I could stay." She stooped
over the old face on the pillow, and kissed it lovingly. "You know,
dear, what has happened. Phoebe is coming--your sister Phoebe." She had
a strange feeling, as she said this, of dabbling in immortality--of
tampering with the grave.

Then old Maisie spoke for the first time; slowly, but clearly enough,
though softly. "I think--I know--what has happened.... _All_ our
lives?... But Phoebe will come. My Ruth will fetch her. Will you not,
dear?"

"Mother will come, very soon."

"That is it. She is mother--my Ruth's mother!... But I am your mother,
too, dear!"

"Indeed yes--my mother--my mother--my mother!"

"I kissed you in your crib, asleep, and was not ashamed to go and leave
you. I went away in the moonlight, with the little red bag that was _my_
mother's--Phoebe's and mine! I was not ashamed to go, for the love of
your father, on the cruel sea! Fifty years agone, my darling!" Gwen saw
that she was speaking of her husband, and her heart stirred with anger
that such undying love should still be his, the miscreant's, the cause
of all. She afterwards thought that old Maisie's mind had somehow
refused to receive the story of the forgery. Could she, else, have
spoken thus, and gone on, as she did, to say to Gwen:--"Come here, my
dear! God bless you!"? She held her hand, pressing it close to her. "I
want to say to you what it is that is fretting me. Will Phoebe know me,
for the girl that went away? Oh, see how I am changed!"

The last thing Gwen had expected was that the old woman should master
the facts. It made her hesitate to accept this seeming ability to look
them in the face as genuine. It would break down, she was convinced, and
the coming of a working recognition of them would be a slow affair. But
she could not say so. She could only make believe. "Why should she not
know you?" she said. "She has changed, herself."

"When will she come?" said old Maisie restlessly. "She will come when
you are gone. Oh, how I wish you could stay, to tell her that this is
me!"

"Do you think she will doubt it? She will not, when she hears you talk
of the--of your old time. I am sorry I must go, but I must." And indeed
she thought so, for she did not know that he